


Wait Until the Light Breaks

by OrodrethsMichiru



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 09:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10186679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrodrethsMichiru/pseuds/OrodrethsMichiru
Summary: The night after Eöl’s execution, a young orphan sits in his mother’s room and waits for his fate to catch up to him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this in honor of B2MeM 2017, based on the novel concept that I can actually post things when I'm pleased with them.

_Miners are trained when things go wrong_  
_to lie on the ground, breathe slow_  
_and shallow, wait until the light breaks at last_  
_through a chink and they are found._

— Sara Berkeley Tolchin, "What Just Happened?"

 

They have given him his mother’s old room. Maeglin knows it was once hers because the enormous bed on its raised dais is dressed in the pine green and rich browns she had favored. He knows it was hers by the crowd of white gowns gathering dust where they hang in the closet, by the silver jewelry packed away neatly in chests on the armoire. The room itself is directly across from Turgon’s at the crown of the King’s Tower, which tells him that its first owner was held an equal of the king; and who but his mother had ever gainsaid Turgon’s command to remain within the walls of Gondolin? This, also, proves it was hers.

Mostly he knows by the smell. Beneath the empty chill of neglect, his mother’s scent of spice on new snow lingers, a balm for spinning thoughts – save the one whispering that, soon, even this will be gone, and Mother will then be no more than a figure in his memory.

He sits on the very edge of her grand bed with his knees drawn up to his chest, half-heartedly examining a circlet he had found in an oak case during his exploration of the room. In his heart of hearts, he thinks it would look princely on him, as grand as he had felt when they first arrived, before disaster struck.

The circlet’s delicate, swooping lines show Maeglin a shattered reflection of himself, his features separated for individual analysis. Here is a blur of his porcelain skin—it had burned in the light of the open sun during the first days of their flight, but the raw redness faded once Mother smoothed a balm over it, leaving him once more unmarked. There is a smear of his black hair, frazzling out of the intricate, Noldorin style Mother had teased it into before they entered the city. Now and then he catches also the clearer glimpse of his eyes, roving over the metal with a keen watchfulness Maeglin does not truly feel.

He looks up into the full-length mirror on the wall and sees his mother’s room doubled to a full circle. Taken all together, he seems very small, weak; not at all the bold adventurer who had declared himself Mother’s protector in Nan Elmoth. Slowly, Maeglin forces his feet to the floor. As he stands he rests the crown over his disheveled hair.

Against this backdrop, black as the _galvorn_ Eöl crafted, as the unending Dark Maeglin can only imagine because Mother would not describe it, the diadem’s silver is almost dazzlingly bright. He finds himself captivated by the way it races arcs of fire and starlight through his hair. Daringly, he lifts his chin and squares his shoulders the way Mother taught him—the way Turgon had, effortlessly, sitting on his throne. Even in the rough, travel-stained tunic and riding pants Maeglin wears – the same he set out from Nan Elmoth wearing; no one has thought to offer him new clothes, and it feels disrespectful, selfish, to ask – he thinks he might see the Noldorin prince Mother assured him he was.

“Lómion?” The voice is unexpected, intrusive. Heart leaping wildly to his throat, Maeglin whirls.

King Turgon stands poised in the doorway staring at him. In his peripheral vision, Maeglin sees the truth: his reflection wilts, shoulders creeping forward, his head ducking down. He is suddenly very aware of the smell of horse sweat and poorly washed flesh. The scrutiny of a real prince reveals him for what he is. Reduced once more to a beggar crawled out of the woods, Maeglin yearns to stuff his mother’s circlet out of sight, but he dares not draw attention to it even to do so.

The surprise fades from Turgon’s face, leaving behind only exhaustion and grief. Maeglin feels a twinge of pity for this man, with whom he shares a broken family and yet barely knows. This drowns in a flood of panic when Turgon begins speaking. The words make no sense, flowing smoothly from one sound to the next, and Maeglin knows what is happening but is too ashamed to say anything. He stands, fighting to pluck meaning from the nonsense syllables, until at last they lilt up in a question. Dizzy from the hammering of his heart and over the screaming protest of his common sense, Maeglin nods.

Turgon dips his head in return, pulling the door shut as he steps fully into the room. He speaks again, more sure of himself, less unguarded, and draws near; Maeglin backs away to keep a distance between the king’s immaculate white robes and his own reeking body.

The backs of his calves hit the end of Mother’s bed, plopping Maeglin gracelessly on his rear. Turgon is looking at him, waiting with obvious patience. Maeglin’s pulse is a roar in his ears and he stares desperately down at his knees. His hands, clasped in his lap, are remarkably steady despite it all.

“Lómion?” Turgon prompts, followed by another unintelligible stream. Maeglin shuts his eyes, swallowing, mouth working soundlessly for a moment.

“I—I don’t—I can’t—” The mattress sinks as Turgon sits next to him, and he flinches, surprise stealing what few words he has left.

“Lómion,” Turgon repeats slowly. Then, gently, he asks, “Do you not speak Quenya?”

“Some,” Maeglin defends; it comes out as a whisper. He knows colors and can count up to one hundred forty-four; he knows how to yelp and say, _“The water’s cold!”_ and he knows what, _“We’ll stop here tonight,”_ means. He knows the words for rabbit and deer and he knows the names of all the relatives he has never met, from Anairë in Valinor to Carnistir in Thargelion. He knows _“I love you.”_ But Maeglin cannot hold even the simplest of conversations in his mother’s tongue, for it is the language of those who slew his father’s kin in Aman, and Eöl had asked that it not be taught to him; and Mother had honored that request. Or she had until Maeglin had taken it into his head to run away with her to Gondolin, and then along the way she had given him sporadic instruction.

“I didn’t realize,” Turgon says, his accent just as strange as it had been when Mother had greeted him – only yesterday – in Sindarin and Turgon, too joyful to be puzzled, had answered in kind. Nevertheless, he is perfectly understandable as he continues, “Please forgive my presumption.” Maeglin nods dully. Within the locked confines of the formal apology lurks a fury bordering on rage that any child of Aman should have grown up denied mastery of the High Speech.

The anger, Maeglin knows, is directed at Eöl, but his head still sinks lower as he perceives it, sending the circlet lurching. He rushes to steady it and finds Turgon’s hands already there, catching it, putting it back in place. Maeglin sneaks another glance at himself in the mirror. Turgon is also examining his reflection, so Maeglin sits up, shoving back a greasy lock of hair behind his ear and trying to mimic the king’s easy, straight-backed grace. It seems easier to correct the differences between their postures with Turgon sitting next to him, until finally Maeglin is holding himself exactly like the king.

“It doesn’t suit you at all,” Turgon says, and Maeglin sees the panic leap out of his eyes as the confident façade crumbles and he curls in on himself, snatching the crown off his head before Turgon can take it away. How many times had Mother told him how wise her brother was? Of course he would see through Maeglin’s pretense of nobility. Without the White Lady of Gondolin to speak on his behalf, the only tie Maeglin has to this city is as the son of the man who murdered the king’s sister. Staring down at the metal cradled in his hands, Maeglin knows with dreadful certainty that he will soon follow Eöl’s plunge over the precipice.

“Easy child,” Turgon soothes, not seeming to notice Maeglin’s flinch as he drapes a white-clad arm over his shoulders. “Easy, Lómion; you may keep it regardless. It is fitting that you should have it; it belonged to my—to your mother.” _How generous,_ Maeglin thinks, with a sharp burst of hysterical relief, _to let me wear it to my execution._

Strange, fractured observations come to him in his panic. The arm pulling him close is hard and lean, for all that the flowing white sleeve clothing it is long to the point of impracticality. In the brief moment before Maeglin’s stench overwhelms it, Turgon’s scent envelops him; soft and dusty. He smells like the books Mother had little use for and Eöl scorned. _“If you cannot remember it yourself,”_ he would say, _“it must not have been important. No son of mine will cheat off the accomplishments and success of another.”_

A thought skips across the pool of his mind: Turgon does not find books or book learning dishonest.

“Lómion, Lómion,” the king says, syllables stretched and pulled like taffy, the way Mother spoke to calm the horses when they startled. Then, haltingly, “Nephew,” as though testing the weight of it in his mouth. Maeglin finds himself tucked closer to Turgon’s side. “Are you cold? You’re trembling.”

 _You cannot ask me to be brave!_ he shouts, all within himself, for his throat has closed for fear. His life was supposed to begin here, not to end. He had not wanted Eöl’s bitter certainty about the kin-slaying Golodhrim to prove true. He does not want to die.

Seconds pass, and still he cannot speak. Turgon shifts, pulling Maeglin closer still. Through the greasy tangle of his hair, Maeglin feels the bump of the king’s nose, followed by a rumble of disgust. Shame burns behind Maeglin’s eyes, but Mother’s kinsman pulls back only enough to tuck Maeglin’s head beneath his chin instead.

Half-pulled into Turgon’s lap, Maeglin waits to hear his sentence passed, his terror slowly turning to dull anticipation. It seems a curious thing, he notes absently, to cradle so close one you meant to kill. Likely it is for Mother’s sake; the memory of his sister that Turgon clings to, not her living son. But finally the king does stir, drawing back.

“It grows late. What say we draw you a warm bath?” Maeglin finds his voice.

“If it pleases you.” He could at least meet death clean. Will that make the plunge any less painful?

As if he hears the thought, Turgon hums, gives his shoulders a squeeze. “Tomorrow,” he says gently; Maeglin bows his head at the pronouncement, fingers tightening around Mother’s circlet. He almost misses what Turgon says next: “Tomorrow, we will see about arranging your lessons in Quenya and commissioning you a crown of your own.”

A soft noise breaks past his lips, keening and confused. The king peers down at him, his face in his alarm so like Mother’s that Maeglin could weep. Could, but for the sudden, wild hope rising in his chest. “You do not mean to have me killed?”

“No!” Turgon recoils, but in the next breath hauls Maeglin to him, so that he has no choice but to bury his face in the pristine whiteness of Turgon’s robes, as though he is once more an unnamed child. “Ai, Lómion, my sister’s son, blood of my blood—no! A thousand times no!” And over and over, _no no no_ , until Maeglin relaxes, inhaling the king’s bookish smell. “What do you _take_ me for?” Turgon asks, agonized, whispering into Maeglin’s hair.

 _You are the man who murdered my father_ , Maeglin thinks, but buries the thought deep, where none will ever find it. He must be Aredhel’s son now, not Eöl’s. Instead he grasps tentatively at Turgon’s voluminous sleeves, presses his face to Turgon’s shoulder. The king murmurs encouragingly, rocking them both gently, carding a hand through Maeglin’s lank hair.

“You are safe here, Lómion,” the king vows. “Safe, among your kin, as you were always meant to be. You are a great prince of the Noldor, of the house of the High King, and as dear to me as if you were my own son. I will not harm you. Within these walls, nothing ever shall. Trust me in this. Do you trust me?"

"Yes," Maeglin answers. He does not hesitate. _I have to._

**Author's Note:**

> Hypothetically, this story is one in a series on Maeglin, exploring his life in Gondolin. I just haven't written the other pieces... yet.
> 
> Dedicated to my friend Anne Flint, who has done more for me than she'll ever know, and whose interest in Maeglin and Aredhel first prompted me to unearth this story from my written notes a few years ago.


End file.
